Fermata
by fallen-musician
Summary: Near the end of his life and career, Mozart wished he could just hold this moment forever, like an endless fermata. SalierixMozart/MozartxSalieri, Mozart L'Opéra Rock canon  but it's pretty flexible .


A wince accompanied the last trails of his signature, and Mozart could barely bring himself to sprinkle sand across the parchment so the words would dry. Better to let them smudge into illegibility, so no one could read his shameful supplication for yet another loan.

_Another night away from Constanze, not that Mozart didn't care for her, or miss her presence despite other sources of warmth in bed with him. Both husband and wife had had their infidelities, but the couple had kept their marital happiness—and yes, their mutual love—for all these years by not prying too closely into their spouse's affairs. Yet Mozart_ _suspected that if she knew who he really was in bed with at the time, she would be a little less obliging about her husband's dabbles in indecency._

As he sealed the carefully-folded letter, a drop of blood-red wax dripped onto his thumb. His father had warned him time and again to be careful with his finances, that he should only spend what he could earn. It wasn't as if he and Constanze were bankrupt. But Mozart knew that if his father were still alive, there would be even more of his father's famously scalding letters arriving at their house, chastising and critical of their financial situation.

_Antonio Salieri, official composer and conductor to the court of Emperor Joseph II of Austria, gave a little huff in his sleep as Mozart's face pressed against his skin and Mozart's lips gently kissed a trail down to his nipple. A little nibble to it, and then Salieri blinked his eyes open, and there was almost, but not quite, a smile on his face. The arms of the composers found one another, and Salieri gently pulled Mozart up so their mouths touched and they could kiss each other good morning—or, rather, good night, since it was still two in the morning. _

Besides, Mozart needed the money he was begging for, even if he and Constanze were situated adequately due to income from both commissions and students. Adequately wasn't enough when other composers for the court were wealthy beyond measure, with more than two servants and expensive houses in the outskirts of Vienna, where the air was clearer and the streets quieter. Adequately wasn't enough when other composers for the court could pay to have Mozart's productions booed and could pay to have Mozart's singers and musicians hiss gossip in the salons and drawing rooms. There were always people to impress and always people to best, and money was needed to do that.

_They of course had met at Salieri's house under the pretense that Mozart would show off one of his new compositions, but it had crescendoed from there. Soon, they had both found themselves situated on the clavier bench, conducting little sonatas to share, played by instruments of sighs and moans. Sometime during the night they had fallen onto the small couch near the clavier, and even later than that they had gone upstairs, with Salieri carrying Mozart as if he were the other composer's young bride. _

It had become even more difficult after the disasters of both Figaro and Don Giovanni. Cosí Fan Tutte had failed to revive the public, and Da Ponte had left for better commissions, a candle of continued friendship failing to illuminate the shadow of failure. The music of Heaven still spurred Mozart's pen. But it was as if all the world had fallen to the devil. Or, perhaps, it was as if Mozart himself were the only one who had been damned, just like his own Don Giovanni. Perhaps he had failed God, sinned too much to keep his gift. Now, was he to be punished by knowing his brilliance, but knowing that it would never more be celebrated?

_During the night that seemed to last forever and for no time at all they had given and taken, spread their legs for the other and teased the other about how willingly he would spread his legs. Mozart had paused in the middle of the caprices and asked Salieri how a line sounded. Salieri had gently extricated Mozart's head from between his legs and fetched ink and paper to scribble down a few notes before they returned to their divertimentos. And then, finally, they lay in each other's arms, too exhausted to do anything but slowly kiss whatever bit of flesh touched their lips and thank whatever power had brought them together._

Nothing would be good enough. No amount of money, no amount of talent, no amount of blessing from God Himself could suffice. There were just too many people to please... A knock sounded at the door, and Constanze entered, carrying a letter. "It's from Herr Salieri," she explained, and the disapproval was clear on her face. She crossed the room and handed the letter to her husband. Waited a few seconds. Then she left. Constanze was a good wife. She understood him. As much as she could be expected to.

_They were the only two who truly understood each other. Two composers, entwined in an endless quest for greatness as tightly as they were entwined in each other's arms. They didn't need to talk. Their music spoke for them. They communicated in a language of touch and sound, fingering the keys of a clarinet or the strings of a viola until the right harmony exuded from their instruments in apotheosis. They avoided other subjects. It would have ruined the delicate balance of the chords, transformed the perfect authentic cadence of their climactic finish to a deceptive one, leaving everyone unsatisfied and unhappy, with no hope for another movement which would finish the piece._

The letter was penned in a careful and square hand, likely composed by Salieri's butler, copied out multiple times in the exact same format. The contents were entirely impersonal, but sent to Mozart, they were a slap in the face. "Herr Antonio Salieri would request the pleasure of your company at a small celebration of his promotion to Imperial Kapellmeister of the court of Emperor Joseph II of Austria."

"_I wish I could just stop time," Mozart had remarked idly after a similar night. "Just hold out my hand and keep us here, unmoving, for as long as I want. And time would have to obey, as my musicians have to obey when I give the same command." Salieri hadn't spoken, but his arms had wrapped tighter around Mozart's body, and his breath had grown a little deeper. No words were necessary. They never needed to state the obvious. They understood each other. They always would._

Mozart put down the letter and picked up his music, the requiem he had been commissioned a few days earlier by that deathly figure. Something was missing from this movement, something he hadn't been able to put his finger on. He scanned the piece before focusing his attention on the last measures.

There, before the final, ultimate "Amen." That note, right there. It needed something.

A curved line.

A dot underneath.

A fermata.

* * *

><p>A short musical glossary, for clarity's sake:<p>

Crescendo: increase in volume

Clavier: Keyboard instrument from the 18th century, precursor to the piano

Cadence: The ending chords of a piece. An authentic cadence is comprised of a chord built around the fifth note of the scale for the key you're writing in, followed by a chord built around the first note (A perfect authentic cadence is when all the notes for the chords are arranged in a particular way). A deceptive cadence starts with the fifth as well, but ends with a chord built around a note other than the first, typically the sixth. It's rather unsatisfying, because you expect an authentic cadence but then you're "deceived."

Fermata: Musical notation indicating that the player holds the note until the conductor cuts them off. Yes, it looks like a curved line with a dot underneath it, written above whatever note is to be held.


End file.
